


Stolen Sunday

by Galadriel1010



Series: Birthday Prompts [18]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Lazy Mornings, Lazy Sex, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26082697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel1010/pseuds/Galadriel1010
Summary: Canon compliant: No Plot - Jack and Ianto have a rare lazy Sunday morning. M to be on the safe side but not explicit
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Series: Birthday Prompts [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862779
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41





	Stolen Sunday

It was that rarest of creatures, a lazy Sunday morning at Ianto’s apartment. The Rift monitor was predicting quiet, the local gangs had been more or less appeased, and the weather forecast was predicting rain until lunch followed by a warm, bright afternoon, so they didn’t even feel any guilt at staying in bed instead of getting out and enjoying a day off.

Ianto rolled over and stretched out under the sheets – fresh on the night before – and looked up at Jack. Or rather, looked up at the back cover of Jack’s book. It was another autobiography of a 20th century rock star, all sex and drugs and rock and roll and occasionally a bit of music thrown in. “I don’t understand why you read those things,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “Looking for your cameo?”

“Page 153. I wondered if he’d remember.” He chuckled and angled the book so he could see past it to Ianto. “Kidding.”

“I could tell.” Ianto sat up at last and pushed the book out of the way so he could lean in for a kiss. It was slow and languorous, and tasted of tea and toast with lime marmalade, and a hint of mint toothpaste. He cupped Jack’s face in one hand to hold him in place, and felt the book drop onto the bed next to him before Jack’s hands rested on his waist and pulled him closer. His other hand gripped Jack’s biceps loosely, to feel the shift of muscle under his palm and against his fingers, and he pressed forwards to slide his fingers into Jack’s hair and stroke them gently over the back of his skull. There was none of the frantic desperation of the previous night, a stolen moment fuelled by the adrenaline of the hunt that left him gasping, shaking and wrecked in the best way. Instead there was a soft warmth in his chest, the one that never went away but sometimes glowed a little brighter, the twist in his stomach that hurt in the best way, and the beginning of a slow burn that could consume him if he let it or settle down, banked for now, until the adrenaline hit again.

Jack seemed to be in the same place. One of his hands had slid to Ianto’s back and rested against his spine, just above the waist of his sweatpants, the other was on his hip and the thumb rubbed gently against his hip bone. He was warm and welcoming, languid and lazy, solid Sunday morning somnolence whilst rain pattered against the window.

Ianto rolled his hips gently as an experiment and swallowed down Jack’s contented hum. Want rumbled through him like distant thunder. He thought for a moment about chasing it, but in the end it was too distant a thought, and the present too comfortable and close. Instead he settled into the moment, curled, content, against Jack, and left the past and future to their own devices.


End file.
